


Déjà Vu All Over Again

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Operation Mongoose Part Two - canon divergence, S4 Canon Divergence, UST, alternate reality death, cs au week, mild sexual references, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 13:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7510368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma has a little more time to get to know the rewritten Killian Jones in Rumple and Isaac’s twisted reality, and gradually learns that there are some things that The Dark One just can’t change.  (Canon divergence, spoilers for Operation Mongoose Part Two).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Déjà Vu All Over Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribblecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblecat/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Other Tale](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/213750) by Scribblecat. 



> Written upon request by @scribblecat27 to accompany her latest (and most breathtaking) piece of Captain Swan artwork called “The Other Tale”. Happily, this request also coincided with “Day Two - Canon Divergence” of CS AU Week, so clearly it was meant to be. For you, Sez, and I hope it’s done your beautiful creation justice, and Happy 9th Time We’ve Done This Combined Gig Thing in OUAT land.

~*~

_Can I ask you a question? You trusted me with your life back there. Why?_

_It’s complicated. Might take a while._

_My schedule’s pretty clear._

 

~*~

 

He’s always been a clumsy man. 

It was how he’d lost his hand after, all, or so they tell him. Whenever Killian Jones thinks about that day a little too hard, striving to recall exactly how the accident had happened, his memory blurs and cracks around the edges.  What he does remember is that it was his own stupid fault, something of which his Captain reminds him on a near daily basis. 

Yes, he’s always been clumsy, all elbows and knees and fumbling fingers, tripping over slop buckets and dropping the simplest of tools.  Right now, though, in this fleeting, glorious moment, he feels as though he could slay an army of dragons, because Emma Swan is smiling at him with enough warmth to rival the sun over their heads, as though he’s already slain an army of flying beasts in her defence. 

And he indeed would attempt to slay a thousand such creatures if she would allow him the honour.   

She says his name as though it is an old friend on her tongue, and the tiny spasms of awareness that spark through his body at her tender regard are an altogether new definition of clumsiness.  He can’t say he dislikes the sensation. 

As she and the lad help him steer the Jolly Roger towards the unfamiliar port ( _trust me, I know where we’re_ _going_ ), she tells him an enchanting but improbable tale of other realms and magic, of a marriage ceremony that must be stopped or else all hope will be lost.  Of the Dark One and a magical quill, of lives rewritten and changed for the worst, including his own.

It is indeed an improbable tale, but the conviction in her voice rings true, and he finds himself torn between what he knows is real and what he wishes were possible.

As she explains further all that they must do in order for her to return to her own world, fear  curls like a barbed scythe in his gut.  He is naught but a lowly deckhand, and has no business soldiering or playing the dashing hero.  Then she smiles at him, and is something in her eyes that calls to him, conjuring up visions of flashing steel and the roar of the ocean at the peak of its glorious wildness.   

He knows in that instant he will not deny her a single thing she asks of him, and from the slow curve of her rose-tinted lips, it seems she knows it too. 

“But before we do any of  _that_ ,” she tells him now, one slender hand dropping from her windswept mane of golden hair to pluck at the bodice of her gown with nimble fingers, a grimace of distaste replacing her smile, “I would kill for a change of clothes and a hairbrush.”  She tilts her head to where the dragon vanished beneath the waves, her voice taking on a note of self-mockery. “No pun intended.”

He thinks she looks beautiful as she is, her hair wild and free like burnished gold framing her face, the blue of her dress mimicking the deep azure of the sea around them.  He is decidedly no expert when it comes to ladies and their fashions, however, so he nods his agreement.  “Perhaps there is something below deck-” He trails off, trying and failing to keep his gaze from following the graceful movements of her hand as she continues to fuss with her bodice, unwittingly exposing far more of a lady’s bosom than he’s ever had the good fortune to witness at such close quarters.   

As if feeling his eyes upon her, her green gaze lifts, meeting his with an almost audible  _snap._ Again, that slow, knowing smile touches her mouth, sending a flush of dull heat up the back of his neck. “-that might be suitable,” he tacks on hurriedly, his voice little more than a roughened squawk, and his face flushes even more.   

Her nose wrinkles briefly – on her lovely face, it’s beyond charming – then she gives a resigned sigh. “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” she mutters, smoothing her hands down the crumpled skirt of her gown. “Apparently I’ve worn this thing for a year, I guess I can make do with whatever we can find.” 

He stares at her, the full meaning of her words hitting him.  A year.  She’d been chained up in that tower for a whole  _year_ , and  _he_ had helped rescue her.  Killian Jones, the deckhand whose only skill is scrubbing decks, had helped rescue this beautiful woman - the daughter of royalty, if the lad is to be believed - from a tower prison. 

Something tightens deep in his chest, making it hard to breathe. She’s waiting on him to speak, he knows, and with relief he manages to find the right words.  “The Captain’s Quarter’s would be our best bet.” He glances at Henry, who is cheerfully tending to the ship’s wheel. “I’d best remain above deck and ensure we stay our course, but Blackbeard’s cabin is just off the-” 

Emma Swan’s hand is suddenly on his forearm, the heat of her palm warming his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and there is an odd sadness in her eyes that makes his heart lurch.   “I know where it is.”  Before he can make sense of this unlikely claim, she squeezes his arm gently, just the once, then lets her hand fall away.  “I won’t be long.” 

  

~*~

 

She’s two steps into the Captain’s Quarters before she realises she’s crying silently, her cheeks wet, her eyes burning.  Gripping the wooden ladder with one hand, Emma closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the smooth wood, willing herself to keep it together. 

She can do this. 

She  _has_  to do this.

If she doesn’t, if she fails -

She can’t bear to think about it.

No, she won’t fail but  _God_ , now that the adrenaline of their escape is fading, she’s tired. Right now, she could sleep for a  _month_ , but there’s no time to rest, no time to properly adjust to this freaking clusterfuck of a world Gold and the Author have created for them.  Henry and Killian risked their lives to rescue her from that tower. She can’t repay them by falling to pieces now, even if fear is clawing at her insides and her wrists are raw from those fucking manacles. 

Even if she can’t stop herself replaying the moment she’d literally crashed into Killian Jones, seen the confusion in his eyes and remembered she was a total stranger to him.

(Sure, he’d blushed and looked at her with a befuddled shyness, his hand almost trembling in hers, and she’d still wanted to hold him and kiss him and find comfort in his solid warmth because she’d been dreaming of his face and his touch for a year but it was all wrong because he didn't  _know_ her.)

“Damn it.” 

Shaking her head, she takes a deep, steadying breath, then instantly regrets it, screwing up her nose again at the lingering smell of musty bedding and unwashed male. The room is messy, half-eaten bowls of food still sitting on the small wooden table, Blackbeard’s possession strewn about carelessly. This is definitely not Captain Hook’s neatly kept quarters, and sadness washes over her once more at the thought.  

Seriously, if Gold was standing in front of her right now, she’d deliver on that long-ago promised punch in the face, dark magic or not. 

The enormity of the task ahead of them suddenly looms large, swamping her. Find Robin. Convince this realm’s Regina to tell Robin how she feels about him. Stop his wedding to Zelena. Keep out of Rumple’s way. Avoid the evil version of her parents for all their sakes. Say goodbye to this realm’s version of the man she loves.

Sighing, Emma starts rifling through the chest at the foot of the narrow bunk bed. Out of all the challenges that lie ahead of her, she can’t help thinking that maybe it’s the last one that’s going to hit her the hardest.  Her head knows the man above deck isn’t  _her_ Killian, but her heart is harder to convince. She’d have to be blind not to notice the way he’s been watching her with hopeful longing, or the way her own pulse quickens whenever he dares to come closer.

She’s been through a lot of weird shit in the last few years, but she has the feeling that this alternate universe version of Killian Jones might just top the list.  Between the goat’s milk instead of rum (she can  _still_  taste that nastiness on her tongue) and the blushing so hard his ears are permanently pink,  _this_  realm’s Killian is lightyears away from the man who eats flirtatious innuendos for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

And yet - 

Despite her frustration at the fruitless search for clean clothes – how many pairs of mouldy old trousers does a pirate captain need, anyway - Emma grins. This Killian Jones might not know her, but he’s still willing to sail into battle for her.

As though summoned by her thoughts, she hears the familiar tread of boots above, then the clearing of a male throat.  “Uh, are you respectable, miss?” 

Miss?  Putting her hands on her hips, she turns to address the voice drifting down from the manhole at the top of the ladder. “Firstly, call me Emma, okay?  Secondly, if you’re asking if I’m naked, the answer is no.”  

There’s a (presumably) embarrassed silence, then a tentative, “What are you, uh, may I-”

His flustered reaction makes her smile, but this isn’t the time or the place for flirting, in more ways than one. “It’s safe to come down, I promise. You can give me a hand.”  There’s another silence from the top of the ladder in response to her last words, and wow, she’s never wanted to bite her own tongue more than she has right now, because she has the feeling this Killian hears far too many hand taunts on a daily basis.

“As you wish.” 

She finds herself staring as he places one  _very_  tentative foot on the top rung. She can’t help it.  She’s watched him climb down that ladder so many times she’s lost count, but now he’s hesitant and uncertain, as though fearful of every move his feet and hand need to make.  Her throat tightens with a helpless tenderness as she watches him navigate his descent, and realises with a jolt that it’s likely this Killian has never been in the Captain’s Quarter’s.  

Fury sparks through her once more, not just because Gold has taken  _everything_ that ever meant anything to him, but because she  _knows_  how much her Killian would cringe at this version of himself.  All his worst fears come to life, turned into Gold’s plaything all over again. 

_Oh, yeah.  Punching Gold in the face is going to feel pretty good when she gets back to Storybrooke._

When Killian finally reaches the ground, the relief on his face is obvious. “Henry assures me he will alert us immediately should any danger arise.” He gives her a quick bow, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe with a thoroughness that feels achingly familiar.  “You found nothing suitable?”

“Nope.”  She gestures to the pile of moldy old clothing on the bunk bed.  “I guess I’ve still got standards, even after a year in the same dress.” 

He glances around the room, rubbing the back of his neck in yet another familiar gesture, and Emma’s eyes prickle hotly all over again.  “The Captain undoubtedly has a few doubloons tucked aside,” he suggests in a soft, hesitant voice that belies the sudden gleam in his bright eyes. “Given the urgent nature of your quest, perhaps we might be forgiven for availing ourselves of them?”

Her tears forgotten, she beams at him, barely able to stop herself from closing the distance between them and throwing her arms around him. “There’s the pirate I know and -”

_Woah._

She breaks off, her smile feeling like it’s frozen on her lips.  For the umpteenth time today, she wishes she could take back her words.  This situation is weird enough without her blurting out her feelings to a man who doesn’t know her, especially when she still hasn’t been brave enough to say them to his real self.

He’s watching her curiously, as if he knows he’s missed some vital nuance in the conversation.  “Am I to take it that you wouldn’t be adverse to a spot of plundering?”   His tone is solemn, without a trace of the teasing she remembers from their last exchange on the subject of pillaging, and a pang of melancholy twists through her chest.

_I never pillage and plunder on the first date._

_That’s because you haven’t been out with me yet._

Taking another deep breath, she pushes away memories and longing and a whole lot of confusion, then gives him a smile of encouragement that makes his face glow.  “Let’s see what we can find.”

 

 

~*~

 

This morning, when Killian crawled out of his roughhewn hammock to start another day of servitude, if someone had told him he would soon be ransacking the Captain’s quarters in the company of a beautiful woman, he would have assumed their brain had been affected by pox fever. 

And yet here he is, ransacking the captain’s quarters in the company of a beautiful woman who knows things about the Jolly Roger that she couldn’t possibly know unless her fantastical story were true. 

_Emma Swan_. It’s a graceful name, delightfully fitting name for someone so pleasing to the eye.

He keeps a chivalrous distance – she’s a lady, after all – but despite of her complaint of feeling unclean and in need of new clothing, all he knows is that her hair smells like flowers, her skin glows in spite of the occasional smudge of grime and her smile makes his blood grow warm. 

Alas, none of these things are of any real comfort when they fail to find any hint of the Captain’s private stash of gold.  “It seems Captain Blackbeard is even more distrustful of his crew than I’ve heard tell.”

From her crouched position in front of a sturdy bookcase, Emma Swan flashes him a wry smile over her shoulder.  “Well, you have to admit he’s got good cause,” she says, gesturing between the two of them with one grateful hand.  “We  _are_  doing our best to steal from him, after all.”   Before he can speak, she suddenly clambers to her feet. “Wait. If Gold and the Author can only rewrite the things he actually  _knows_ about _,_ then maybe-” She points to the shelves in the corner of the cabin, a foot or so from where he’s standing.  “Slide across that panel on the middle shelf, would you? If I’m right, there should be a safe behind there.”

There is indeed a metal safe box behind the panelling, and as he trails his fingertips over its cool, smooth surface, he’s assailed by the oddest sense of familiarity. “How did you-” he begins, then shakes his head, deciding to concentrate on more practical matters.  “Alas, we have no key.”

“We’ll see about that.” She steps closer to him, close enough to reach out one hand and curl her fingers around his hook.  “Time for another leap of faith, I guess.” He swallows the sudden lump in his throat as her gaze lifts to meet his. “May I?”

He has no idea what she’s intending to do, but as he suspected earlier, he doesn’t have it in him to refuse her a single thing.  “I’m at your disposal.”

She blinks once, then twice, dark lashes fluttering against her pale skin, and he could swear that she sways towards him.  He holds his breath, then she seems to come back to herself, her gaze dropping down to his hook.  “Okay, here goes nothing. I just hope you weren’t making up stuff to impress me when you told me about this little trick.”

She detaches his hook with a dexterity that would surprise him if he wasn’t immediately distracted by the fact that she’s inserted the base of the curved attachment into the small lock of the safe.  She turns it, there is a satisfyingly loud  _click_ , and then she’s opening the door with a triumphant grin to display several pouches of golden coin.  “ _Yes._  Suck on  _that_ , Rumple.”

_She is truly a confusing, bewitching creature_ , Killian decides.  She has certainly bewitched  _him._  He should be terrified at the notion of stealing from a man such as Blackbeard, yet all he feels iw joy in her obvious delight. “More than enough to purchase some clean clothes for you, I suspect.”

They spend a few minutes stuffing the bags into a leather satchel (plainly embossed with the initials BB, may the Gods above and below help him), then she hitches the strap over his shoulder.  Apparently he’s being entrusted with their stolen bounty, and he finds himself standing a little straighter at the notion.

“We need to buy another sword, too,” she announces in a tone that holds more than a touch of steel in its own right. “Without my magic, we can’t risk being unarmed.”

He blinks at her as she gently detaches his hook from the safe’s door and presses it back into his hand.  The lad had helped him relieve his unconscious former captain of his sword before they’d set sail (another treasonous act that should terrify him), so why would they need another -

_Oh, no.  No, surely she doesn’t -_

Before he can make his apologies and explain to her that he’s never handled a sword in his life, Henry’s voice – clear and true – suddenly rings out above.  “Land ho!”

“Your boy is quite the sailor,” he tells her as he reattaches his hook, remembering the lad’s confident encouragement when they’d first purloined the Jolly Roger from Blackbeard.

“Yeah, well.”  She has her hands already on the ladder, preparing to climb upwards, but she spares him a quick, almost wistful glance.  “He had a great teacher.”

Heat stains the back of his neck, his spirits sinking at the admiration in her voice. She’s talking about  _him_ , just has Henry had done earlier, but she means the  _other_  him.  The Killian Jones she knows in her own world, a man with his face but with a different past and a rather different present, if he ventures a guess. 

The Killian Jones she no doubt wishes was here now, instead of himself.  He’s a poor substitute in any realm, that’s for sure, and he can’t swallow down the urge to apologise. “I’m afraid I may not be of much assistance to you, milady.”

Her mouth twists in a sad, small smile. “Well, you helped me slay a dragon today, so you’ve already got a few notches in the hero column.” She hesitates, one foot on the ladder, as if she might say more, then she turns away.  “Come on.” He sees the white of her knuckles as she grips the rung, her heavy sigh weighing heavily on the empty space between them. “Let’s go stop a wedding.”

 

~*~

 

“You didn’t have to rush, I had everything under control.”  Henry is more than a little smug when they rejoin him, and Emma could swear he looks at least two inches taller.  “Wait until I tell mom I sailed the Jolly Roger by myself!”

At the thought of  _that_ conversation, Emma can’t help the grimace that twists her face. “Remember back in the day, when I was afraid Regina was going to kill me, then you, then me again?”

“But I could tell this world’s Regina and she wouldn’t mind at all, right?” Henry smirks, looking annoyingly unrepentant.  “Hey, did you find any hidden pirate treasure?”

“Wow, nice deflection there, kid.” Emma teasingly narrows her eyes at him, then gestures to Killian, who is tugging awkwardly at the strap of the satchel where it’s cutting into the side of his neck. “We did, more than enough for a change of clothes and some supplies.”

Her son’s face lights up.  “What about some horses? We could get to my mom faster that way.”

Doubtful, Emma chews her lip - she’s never ridden a horse for longer than a few minutes, and even then it was at some backwater fair - then turns to the man behind her.  “Can you ride?”

He ducks his head in embarrassment, and she bites her lip a little harder.  “I’m afraid not, milady. I’ve never had the opportunity to learn.”

Her arms fairly aching with the urge to give him a reassuring hug, she keeps her answer as bright and breezy as she can.  “Well, that makes three of us.”  She combs her fingers through Henry’s mussy hair, secretly pleased that he doesn’t lean away like a clichéd teenager.  “Sorry, buddy. No horses this time.”

As it turns out, the three of them work as well as a team in this realm as they do in Storybrooke, and they manage to dock the Jolly Roger without incident or, more importantly, calling unwanted attention to themselves.  She has no doubt that word of the Mad Savior’s escape has been telegraphed through the kingdom, and the sooner she’s out of this glitzy dress and into something more  _ordinary_  the better.  “My mother is the Evil Queen in this land,” she reminds the others as they disembark, tightening her grip on Blackbeard’s sword as she does her best to keep it hidden in the voluminous folds of her gown.  “Let’s just assume that neither of my parents are very fond of me in this realm and keep our heads down.”

Henry’s face is suddenly pinched with unhappiness, his grip tightening on the copy of Isaac’s ridiculous “Heroes and Villains” book tucked under his name.  “If you don’t have magic here, why did they have you locked up in that tower?”

Anger flares through her, and she inhales a sharp, stinging rush of salt-tinged air. “Because Gold  _really_ wanted me out of the way.”  She glances at Killian over her shoulder, wanting to make sure he’s not quietly freaking out, and is surprised by the scowl drawing his dark eyebrows together.  “What’s wrong?”

“Your own parents imprisoned you in a tower and left you to rot?”  He shakes his head, disbelief written all over his face.  “I thought I was ill-advantaged, having no family of which to speak, but perhaps I was the lucky one.”

Weariness plucks at her bones as she tries to find the right words to explain.  “They’re not themselves here, Killian.”  He blushes, just as he has every time she’s said his first name, which makes her want to say it all the more, if she’s completely honest.  “Back in my world, they’re very good people.”  Putting her hand on her son’s shoulder, she gives it a reassuring squeeze, because this whole situation must be as weird for Henry as it is for her.  “They were kind rulers and they love me and Henry very much.”

Killian nods slowly, as though considering her words, but she can tell he’s not entirely convinced. “I’m glad to hear it, Swan.”

She stares at him as they come to a temporary halt, caught in the press of the crowd in the marketplace.  “Why did you just call me that?”

He looks confused, then lifts his shoulders in an awkward shrug.  “I’ve no clue.” Two spots of colour appear high on his cheekbones. “I apologise, I meant no offense.”

Her heart lurches, sending a rush of unhappy longing through her.  “It’s fine.” She doesn’t want to put a name to the protective tenderness she feels for the Killian Jones standing beside her, not when she misses the real him so much it feels like half her heart is missing.  She needs to pull herself together, get this done and get the fuck out of this realm and back to Storybrooke before she does something stupid.      

“What kind of store are we looking for, Mom?”

Grateful for Henry’s cheerful interruption, she scans their surroundings, trying to get her bearings.  “Oh, I don’t know.  Breeches R Us?” 

Her kid is a quick study, and his sharp nod tells her he understands what she’s saying.  “I think I saw something over that way.”

They make their way through the crowd, and with every step she takes, she’s aware of Killian at her shoulder, guarding her back.  He’s a warm, solid presence who shouldn’t smell as good as the well-groomed pirate she knows so well but he does, and it’s more than a little distracting.  

Once they’ve discreetly dazzled their shopkeeper of choice with their stash of gold doubloons, the man can’t do enough for them.  He doesn’t blink an eyelid at Emma’s choice of clothing, merely directing her to a small back room where she can change, nor at her request for a basin of water and a clean cloth to wash the grime of her tower cell from her skin. Another doubloon, and he miraculously produces a cake of what passes for soap in this realm.  It will probably strip away the top layer of her skin, but it smells of rosemary and lavender, so she’s not going to complain.

While Henry is happily occupied browsing through the weird and wonderful contents of the store, Emma washes quickly, then struggles with the complicated fastenings of yet another scratchy example of ye olde worlde clothing.

Killian seems to be spending his time hovering anxiously between the main store and the door of the back room, obviously trying to keep watch on them both.  He knocks timidly on the door just as she emerges from behind the makeshift modesty screen, and she shakes her head with a smile as she calls out a loud, “Come in.” 

“Henry was wondering how you were-” He breaks off as she plants herself in front of a small spotted mirror on the wall. He hadn’t seen the clothing she’d chosen, and as he catches sight of her, she’s given yet another reminder of how much the lines between this realm’s Killian and her own are blurring.  

“What-” His bright blue gaze sweeps over her, taking in the outline of her breasts in the fitted tunic before lingering on her legs, his strangled, almost indignant tone bringing back memories of meeting yet another version of himself. “What are you  _doing_?”

She twists around, trying to get a proper look at herself.  This establishment doesn’t run to anything as fancy as a full-length mirror, but she takes it from her companion’s reaction that her new breeches fit her like a glove.  “Blending in.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it, then clears his throat.  “I doubt you would blend into any crowd in  _any_  realm wearing such a costume.”

Feeling the heat rise in her face at the blatant male interest in his achingly familiar blue eyes, she fastens the last button on her tunic.  The fabric might be scratchy, but it’s clean and she feels as though she can move properly for the first time in a year. “The Queen’s guards will be looking for a mad-haired woman in a sparkly blue dress.”   Shooting him a smile, she reaches for the pearl-handled hairbrush the shopkeeper had produced at the first flash of their gold coins.  She just hopes it’s up to the task ahead of it.  “Maybe you could go see if Henry needs anything? I’ve just got to fix my hair.”

He swallows hard, his eyes widening as she stretches her arms above her head, arching her spine briefly before she starts to work on the tangles in her hair.  His gaze again sweeps quickly over her from head to toe, then he ducks his head in a nervous bow.  “Right. I’ll just go check on your lad.”

With that, he beats a hasty retreat, and she starts to brush her hair with a little more force than is necessary, irritation with her apparent inability to stop herself from flirting with every version of Killian Jones she encounters.  She should have remembered that hair-brushing practically counts as foreplay in these types of realms.  Or maybe, she thinks with a flicker of guilt, she  _did_ remember and she just didn’t care.

_We both know I’m his type._

She brushes harder, and soon her scalp is tingling, her hair fairly crackling with static but blissfully tangle-free.  Another few minutes later, when it’s pulled back into the best braid/ponytail style she can manage without a truckload of hair product (sadly lacking in this realm), she quickly slips back into the main room of the store to join Henry and Killian. 

Henry is in the far corner of the large room, deep in conversation with the shopkeeper over what looks like a selection of leather gloves, and Killian is –

_Oh._

She catches her breath, her stride faltering, because only has her son apparently armed him with Blackbeard’s sword, he’s also had Killian fitted out with the matching scabbard.  It feels like an eternity since she’s seen him with a sword slung low around his narrow hips, and she almost hates the way her pulse suddenly kicks up several notches.

Almost.

As if he’s been keeping watch for her arrival, his gaze immediately locks with hers, and she swears she can see him blushing from the other side of the cluttered store.  “You’d do just as well strapping a cutlass to that cart horse tethered outside,” he tells her, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.  “I’ll be of no use to you, trust me.”

The self-doubt in his voice makes her heart hurt, but she lifts her chin and fixes him with a steady gaze. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

His left eyebrow arches at the challenge in her words, and again she has the most disorientating feeling of déjà vu.  “What now?”

“We visit the blacksmith to buy another sword for me, then we work on your fighting skills.”

He shakes his head, fumbling with the hilt of the sword as she crosses the room to his side. “Sounds so simple when you say it like that.”

“This will work.“  She’s close enough now to touch him, but she doesn’t.  The more attached she gets to this guy, the harder it will be to leave him behind. "Trust me.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, and she hears his breath shudder as he exhales. "I don’t intend to let you down.”

“I know." Her eyes blur at his words, making her furiously blink the warm pressure of tears away.  "Time to go, Henry.”

Having apparently made friends with the shopkeeper, Henry shakes the man’s hand with enthusiasm, then darts across the store to join them.  He’s carrying a long pair of black leather gloves, which he waves at Emma with a triumphant flourish.  “I got you these.” When he presses them into her hands, the soft leather is cool against her palm.  “Just in case they’ve got your fingerprints on file.”

Laughter - exhausted but joyful - bubbles up in her throat, and she bows her head (only an inch or two, when did he get so tall?) to kiss the top of his head.  Trust Henry to try to make her laugh at a time like this.  “Thanks, kid.”

“Hey, can we eat before we go to the blacksmith? I’m  _starving_.”

Her own stomach flips over at the thought of food that isn’t slop served in a metal bowl, and a quick glance at Killian’s face tells her everything she needs to know.  She can’t imagine Blackbeard is a generous man with the crew’s rations in this or any other realm, and she’s suddenly determined to put that right.  "Good idea.“  Reaching out, she taps the side of the leather satchel Killian’s carrying. "I think your old boss owes us a good lunch, don’t you?”

His teeth flash white against his dark beard as he grins, and her breath snags in her throat as she turns away, her heart doing a ridiculous little jig.  _Seriously. Gold couldn’t have made him a toothless drunkard who smelled of old fish guts in this realm?_

They find a quiet corner in the tap room of the tavern, silence descending as the three of them set about devouring large plates of roast meat (she decides on a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ approach to exactly  _what_ it is that they’re eating) and fried potatoes, tearing off pieces of still-warm, dense bread with greasy fingers. 

It’s the best food she’s had in a long time, and all she can think is thank  _God_  she’s out of that damned corset.

She catches Killian watching her several times, his eyes alight with obvious admiration as she manages to finish almost everything in front of her.  "I grew up poor,“ she ventures after she’s swallowed a particularly amazing mouthful of potato.  Not because he’s made her feel as though she needs to explain, but because she suspects he’ll understand all too well.  "You never knew which meal was going to be your last." 

"Aye, I know that feeling.”  He leans back with a contended sigh, looking more relaxed than he has for hours.  "I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a meal as fine as this one.“

Henry pleads to be allowed another plate of fried potatoes, and Emma doesn’t have the heart to refuse. "Just remember not to go asking for ketchup, okay?”   

Once her son is happily devouring his second serving of the closest thing to fries he’ll get in this realm, Emma takes a moment to scan their surroundings again.  They still need to visit the blacksmith, but there’s no reason why she can’t take Killian through some basic moves while they wait for Henry to finish eating. 

There’s a door not far from their table, a back entrance that no doubt leads to the usual cobbled laneway running between this building and its nearest neighbour.  Leaning across the table, she taps Killian on the back of his hand, earning herself a widening of those vivid blue eyes.  "I have an idea.“

A few minutes later, she and Killian are standing in the cool evening air, which is only faintly tainted by smells (both animal and human) she  _so_  doesn’t want to name.  The back door of the tavern has been kept ajar with a rock, and she can see the top of Henry’s head through the grimy window.  He’d offered to keep watch while stuffing his face and scouring his “Heroes and Villains” book for clues, and alert them if he saw anyone suspicious come into the tavern.  _I’m a good multi-tasker, you know that, Mom_.

Folding her arms across her chest, she studies her waiting student much longer than she needs to, until the silence between them becomes something more, something expectant, filled with an anticipation she knows is far from one-sided.  “You’ll get used to it,” she assures him, nodding to the weapon in his hand, as if that’s the only reason the air between them is buzzing with a thousand unasked questions.  "You’re a natural, I promise.”

Just when she thinks she’s seen every variation of disbelief possible on his face, he surprises her with yet another.  This time he scoffs gently, giving her a sceptical smile as he fumbles with the sword’s hilt.  “You’re telling me that in this other reality, I’m an expert with such a weapon?”

“You’re a regular Jack Sparrow.”

He blinks, those ridiculously long lashes fluttering. “Is that good?”

“Here.“  She shouldn’t do what she’s about to do, but she will.  It’s been a year, a whole fucking year without his touch, his kiss, the smell of his skin, his warmth against her.  She shouldn’t, but she will, because she  _needs_ this. "Let me show you how to use it.”

Standing behind him, she smooths her left hand over the dip of his waist. He flinches at her touch, his voice pitching an octave higher with the kind of panic she never thought she’d hear come out of Captain Hook’s mouth. “What-” 

She says nothing, merely leans into him until her breasts are pressing against his back, her thighs against his, and  _God_ , it feels so good.  Clearly, she’s not the only one who thinks so, because while his whole body may be humming with tension, he still shifts backwards as she reaches around and downwards.  He freezes, waiting while she curls her hand around his, then a sigh ripples through him as she guides him in pulling the sword from its scabbard.

 “Oh.”  It’s a breathy sigh that’s part relief, part nervous laughter, and it sends a wave of butterflies winging madly through the pit of her stomach, every inch of her skin tightening with awareness.

“They say once you become an expert,” she keeps her eyes on their joined hands with a concentrated effort, watching the glittering swoop of the tang as it slices through the air, “your subconscious takes over.”

He’s breathing faster now, and she knows his racing heartbeat is a match for her own.  “Ah.”

Another few set moves, and he’s almost moving gracefully, his bicep flexing against her arm, his hips shifting against hers as he adjusts his stance. “Back in my world,” she murmurs, unable to resist the temptation to help him return the sword to its scabbard, her forearm pressing against his flat stomach as she does, “that’s what we call muscle memory.”

He turns his head to look at her, his expression more than a little dazed, his nose only an inch or two from her own, his face so close that the mussed hair falling over his forehead brushes against her own. His breathing is shallow, his pupils dark, his lips softly parted. “Tell me more about this reality you want to return to.”  He gestures towards her, his hook gleaming in the fading light, then back at himself. “Us, for example.”  She watches as his cheeks turn pink, a blush to go with his shy smile. “I sense that we, uh-” He hesitates, then finishes with a rush, the words tumbling out. “We may be close?”

She should lie, because things are weird enough, but the truth word slips out against her better judgement, maybe because he’s making her feel better with every touch and every burning glance that passes between them. “ _Very_.”

He looks shocked by her answer, although she can’t imagine why.  She’s pretty sure she’s been eyefucking the hell out of him from the moment she ran into him in that dingy stone corridor. “Really?“  

She lets him go then, stepping back to put a foot of space between them, not because she wants to, but because she has to, because if she doesn’t, she is going to kiss him.

The tips of his ears are pink, but there’s a sudden playful gleam in his eyes that she knows all too well. "Well,” he declares in a teasing tone, his gaze locking with hers as he adjusts his grip on the sword and makes a haphazard figure eight through the air.  “I’m starting to get jealous of the other me.”

It’s safer to play dumb, she decides. “Because he’s good with a sword?”

Tilting his head to one side, he gives her a look that tells her he knows exactly what she’s doing. “Because a beautiful woman such as yourself clearly holds him in very high regard.”

It seems this Killian Jones is just as forthright as the real one ( _but this one is real too_ , a little voice whispers in her head and her heart), and she abandons her attempt to feign ignorance. “You’re more like him than you realise.”

He shakes his head, his fingers nervously toying with the buckle of the leather scabbard. “I’m no hero, Emma, and I have no business wielding a hero’s weapon.”   He makes to unbuckle the strap, shooting her a look of appeal. “This should be yours.”

She glances quickly to the window of the tavern to make sure nothing is amiss with Henry, then closes the distance between herself and Killian, her pulse humming in her ears. He stares at her with wide blue eyes as she grabs his hand, stopping him from undoing the buckle.

“Okay, yeah, I know how to use a sword.”  Releasing her grip, she puts her hand flat on his chest, her palm over his heart, her fingertips just grazing the skin bared by the open collar of his black shirt.  His skin is hot to touch, the familiar scent of him teasing her nose and making her want to bury her face in the crook of his neck.  “Do you know why?”

He looks at her, his expression almost fearful, as though he dreads the answer. “Why?”

Her eyes are hot with the threat of tears now, but she doesn’t blink them away. “Because I had a _great_ teacher.”

The heartbeat beneath her palm quickens, rapid and shallow, keeping time with her own, just as it always has, not matter which time or place or realm they find each other. 

“That was the other me.” The sad smile tugging at his lips stabs at her heart.  “I can’t be the hero you need, Emma.”

“Yes, you can.” She brushes her fingertips against his chest, watching his eyes darken as he touches the tip of his tongue to his bottom lip, an painfully familiar gesture she knows will be her undoing. “Trust me.”

When she kisses him, she doesn’t know which of them is more surprised.  

 

~*~

 

He’s always been a clumsy man.  Clumsy in his chores, clumsy when it came to women, be they beautiful or plain or everything in-between.  His shipmates have rogered their way through the whores of most of the ports in this realm, and mocked him mercilessly for his refusal to do the same.  There used to be days when his ears would burn with the memory of their taunts - perhaps he’d be happier with a pretty lad to warm his bed, perhaps he’d be more inclined to partake of the ancient crone of a brothel madam’s charms – but right here, right now, in this moment, he knows one vital truth.

Emma Swan is kissing him.

Her lips are soft and warm, her mouth tasting of salt and a slick, dark sweetness that weakens his knees and sets his blood to pounding in his head and his bones.  Her breasts are warm against his chest, one hand curled around the nape of his neck, the other over his heart. 

Her kiss is like a siren’s song, making him feel as though he’s drowning on dry land. She scratches her fingers gently against his chest, finding bare skin, and he shudders as though she’s slipped her hand down the front of his bloody breeches.  He has no idea if he’s returning her affection correctly but desire swiftly wins out over uncertainty. He opens his mouth to her kiss, and is instantly rewarded with the warm sweep of her tongue against his. 

_Bloody buggering hell._ One kiss and he’s already as stiff as a plank, and perhaps he should be ashamed, but instead his hips jerk against hers, seeking relief from the burgeoning pressure between his legs.  The raw sound of pleasure she makes in response sets his blood aflame. He very much wants to touch her, but even befuddled by longing, he can’t bring himself to be so bold.

It feels like an eternity before they break apart, even though little more than a few moments have passed.  His heart feels like it might punch a hole right through his chest, heat suffusing his whole body as she smiles up at him.  Her eyes are glittering with tears, her smile tinged with melancholy. “I wish I could help you find your happy ending.”

He licks his lips, thinking he could grow old and never tire of the lingering taste of her, and lifts his hand to cup her face, marvelling at his daring. “I suspect you already have, milady.”

Her throat works as she swallows hard, but whatever she wishes to say to him is lost as Henry pushes open the back door of the tavern.

“Grumpy and Lily!”  Her son’s hissed warning mingles with the slamming of the heavy door behind him, and both Killian and Emma jump as though doused with icy water. “They’re in the tavern with a wanted poster of you, Mom,” The lad pounds towards them, clutching his precious book against his chest, distress etched on his face. “I was almost through the door when I saw the bartender point at our table.”

“A wanted poster?” Emma pales. “That was fast,” she almost growls, and she pulls Henry closer to them, pushing him behind Killian. “With Lily here, we’re definitely outnumbered. We’ll have to make a run for it.”

“They’ll just come after us.” Henry’s voice is high-pitched with fear as they start to move. “We’ll never get to my mom in time to make everything right.”

Killian’s heart is racing as he trails behind mother and son.  He might not be a soldier, but he knows they’re cannon fodder in this narrow laneway.  They cannot win this fight, and it’s suddenly quite clear to him what he must do. Reaching out, he grabs Emma’s arm, pulling her close even as the sound of shouting voices begin to echo from within the tavern behind them. “Save Henry.”

Her eyes widen, and the shake of her head is almost violent. “Killian, you can’t beat them.”

“No, but I can buy you some time to get away.” Fear is clawing at his guts, but he will not be swayed, not on this.  She has already shown him a lifetime of adventure in one day, and if what she says is true, tomorrow he may very well wake up a very different man.  

A man worthy of Emma Swan.  

“If I can help return things to how they were meant to be, then what happens to me here won’t matter now, will it?”  

Every word hurts to speak, like a barbed spike on his tongue, and Emma’s eyes well with tears, letting him know she shares his pain. Her mouth trembles, her hands clutching at the front of his vest. “No, I-”

“Go.” He allows himself one last smile into her glittering emerald eyes, then puts his hand on her shoulder, pushing her towards Henry. “Save your boy.”

The blood is roaring in his ears as Emma finally allows Henry to pull her away, her gaze locked with his for what feels like an eternity.  By the time he hears the shouts of their pursuers, their boots sharp on the cobblestones, he is alone.  

First there is a fireball, the brimstone of dark magic staining the air around him, almost singeing off his whiskers as it flies past his head, then the furious shriek of the Evil Queen when she realises her prey has vanished into the night. “After them!”

The sword is heavy and ungainly in his grasp as he stands his ground in the narrow neck of the laneway, but he raises it in defiance with hesitation, because he is so very tired of being afraid. “I don’t think so.”

The Queen’s consort gives him a mocking smile, looking him up and down with contempt, a sneering sort of pity gleaming in his eyes.

“Is she worth your life, pirate?”

Killian Jones lifts his sword, holding it steady before him. He already knows the answer, but he’ll be damned if he is going to give this villain the satisfaction of the truth.  “I’m willing to find out.”

 

~*~

 

He dies a hero’s death.

He is reborn. 

He wakes in Storybrooke, the wooden floor hard beneath his back, Emma’s parents sleeping in a huddle not far from him.  He blinks up at the familiar ceiling as if waking from a nightmare, the details already fading from his mind, finishing like tendrils of torn silk even as he tries to grasp them, to remember. 

Then Emma is there, flying into his arms, her delighted laughter as she shouts his name sinking into his skin and his bones and his blood, her face aglow with happiness, her eyes filled with the words he knows she is still too afraid to say.

It matters not.  He knows a little something about fear.

Besides, they’ve got all the time in the world now.

 

~*~

 

“Hey, check it out.”  Her hand curled in his, Emma tugs him closer towards the window of the diner, nodding to a new menu stuck to the inside of the window. “Looks like Granny’s getting all adventurous.”   

Given they seem to be experiencing a brief respite from Hyde and his nonsense, Killian’s in no mood to linger amidst the townsfolk this morning, not when the Jolly Roger is bobbing temptingly at her moorings and Emma Swan keeps slipping her hand beneath his vest to scratch his back through his shirt, her touch like a spark over dry kindling.  But he’s never been able to deny her anything, and it appears he’s not about to start today.  Dipping his head, he reads aloud from the new so-called ‘seasonal menu’.  “Goat’s cheese salad.” 

_Ah._  He suspects he knows where this is going.

Emma bumps her hip against his, and he hears the laughter in her voice. “Maybe she’s got some leftover goat’s milk out the back.” 

He can’t suppress the shudder that ripples through him. The dreadful rewritten reality in which they’d almost been forever trapped has mostly faded like a bad dream, but somethings have stayed with him. “Thanks, love, but I believe I’ll pass.” 

Her answering laughter, as always, is like a balm to his soul, southing and healing the tiny, lingering wounds, those that are too small to be seen.  “You know,” she drawls as she lets him pull her away from Granny’s and onto the street, towards the harbour and the Jolly Roger and blessed privacy at sea, if only for a few hours.  “We’ve never really talked about exactly how much you remember from that time.”  She squeezes his hand, hard, and he wonders if she’s remembering how they’d parted in that particular realm.

He snorts softly under his breath, letting go of her hand to curl his arm around her shoulders and tugging her closer. “It may have escaped your notice, Swan, but we have been rather preoccupied _.”_

She leans into him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. “My parents vaguely remember lots of things, but Henry and I seem to be the only ones who remember everything.”  She shrugs, the leather of her jacket shifting against his own. “I guess that’s because we weren’t cursed.”

She says nothing more, but her unspoken question is quite plain.  He sighs, but she’s right. This conversation is long overdue, and it’s long past time he spoke more openly of their adventure. “Like your parents, I recall bits and pieces, some more than others,” he begins slowly, not wishing to darken such a lovely sunny morning with the worst of his memories.  “I do know that I never again wish to partake in warm goat’s milk.”

“Sometimes I think I can still taste that stuff,” she tells him, making a ‘bleugh’ face at him. “Gold certainly got his money’s worth out of Isaac there.”

They walk towards the harbour, talking lightly of their first meeting ( _I thought you were the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, as though I’d conjured you up in my dreams_ ) and their cannon battle with Lily ( _I’m glad she doesn’t remember that much, otherwise I’m pretty sure she’d be pissed at us)_ but it’s not until they’ve reached the Jolly Roger that he confides the memory that still jolts him awake now and then, despite all that’s transpired since.  

It seems the first time a man dies is the one that sticks in his mind.

“There is one thing I haven’t told you, Swan, although it seems rather redundant now, given all we’ve went through in Camelot and the Underworld.”  The sea air is cool against his face as he takes her hand, the sound of the waves slapping against the wooden pier loud in the early morning stillness. “I remember how it felt to die.”

Distress flashes across her face.  “Killian-”

“It’s all behind us, love.” Tugging on her hand, he pulls her closer, close enough for his nose to brush against the curve of her cheek. “There are more pleasant things to recall.” Her breathing slows, her body swaying closer to his. “For instance, I also remember having the pleasure of a _second_ first kiss from the woman who had stolen my heart.”

She leans back, tilting her face up to his like a flower might seek the warmth of the sun, her eyes sparkling like gemstones in the early morning light.  “I seem to remember something along those lines, too.”  She’s still smiling when she touches her mouth to his, soft and gentle, a lazy tasting of his lips, her right hand tucked between them, over his heart. The heart restarted by a God, no less, forever imprinted with the legacy of Emma Swan’s fierce fight to save him.

When their kiss is over, she touches her lips to the scar on his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” she murmurs, and a tender warmth tightens his chest.

“And I love _you_ , Emma Swan.”  He presses a lingering kiss to her temple, then sweeps his left arm towards the gangplank. “You know, I don’t believe I’ll ever get tired of hearing those words come out of that lovely mouth of yours.”

She walks ahead of him up the gangplank, her hips swaying with a delectable rhythm he’s quite sure is intentional. “Well, that’s good,” she tosses over her shoulder, “because I plan on saying them a lot.”

Standing poised to board his ship, she smiles at him. “I think we’ve probably got a good hour before the day needs saving again.” Her voice takes on a teasingly sultry tone. “Wanna go make some new memories?” Her gaze sweeps over him from head to toe, lingering pointedly in a few places with such feminine hunger that he feels rather like a blushing deckhand all over again. “Unless you’ve got somewhere else to be?”

He grins, because he never could deny her anything, no matter which realm or reality, and he’s definitely not about to start now. “When it comes to you, Swan, my schedule’s _always_ clear.”

 

 

~*~


End file.
